


Gift of the People

by taenia



Series: Dalish Myth and Lore [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Poetry, Dalish, Dalish Origin, Fair warning about that, Folklore, I REALLY HATE SOLAS, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Poetry, but i'm trying, truly fucking awful poetry that is attempting to copy the best thing ever written and failing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-02-28 00:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taenia/pseuds/taenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories are all the same, anyway, he thinks: tales about the old gods, tales about when the People lived forever, tales about Lavellan’s flight from the Dales, tales about when elves lived in cities.</p><p>***</p><p>An exploration of Dalish folklore and how Lavellan's relationship with the People's stories has changed through his life, with a particular emphasis on fixing some VERY ANNOYING plot elements tied to those stories.  SPOILERS FOR THE ENDGAME OF DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION, especially in later chapters (when they are posted).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Tale of Fen'Harel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STRUCTURE WHAT IS IT

It is winter, and the moon is full.

The air is still and silent, new snow lies heavy on bowed trees and broken grass.

Between the spruce trees, the scarlet sails of the aravels have been furled; their long masts could almost blend into the forest, but they have been carefully brushed clean. Between the clustered landships, a fire is burning, throwing long shadows into the night.

The First is telling a story.

Vantti cannot concentrate on the words. Instead, he watches the steam that curls away as his breath meets fireglow and the icy air.

The stories are all the same, anyway, he thinks: tales about the old gods, tales about when the People lived forever, tales about Lavellan’s flight from the Dales, tales about when elves lived in cities.

Vantti has only seen city elves once, refugees from Denerim and the Blight. They were gaunt and half-starved and none of them wore vallaslin, not even the elders. He does not think that he would want to live in a city.

His own vallaslin are new enough that it still hurts when he brushes his hand across his face, but his mother assures him that this will fade in time. (Although he is not supposed to call her ‘mother’ anymore; she is Amille, the keeper of the clan’s halla, and he is a hunter-apprentice. He has been given to Mythal and she is his mother now. But childhood is a hard habit to break.)

He knows that an adult should listen to the stories. If he is lucky, he will tell the stories to his own children. If he is unlucky, he may be the only one left to bring Lavellan’s story to a new clan.

He is an adult now, and he should remember.

The young man tries to still his hissing breaths and turns his attention to the First, who has begun a new story.

“This,” she says, “is the tale of Fen’Harel, who walked between the gods and the Forgotten Ones, and was the world’s first betrayer.”

***

This is the tale of Fen’Harel, who walked between the gods and the Forgotten Ones, and was the world’s first betrayer.

When the earth was young and beautiful Fen’Harel looked down upon the world from his place in the sky. His gaze traveled across snow-veiled mountains and sand-saddled deserts. He peered deep into the seas and high into clouds, glancing at everything, and never stopping, until he chanced to see two sisters who were hunting in the woods.

These were Mythal and Andruil, and they were attended by a company of nobles, radiantly adorned. (For in those days, the gods did not abide in the sky, but walked freely across the grass, and spoke openly with the people, imparting lore and wisdom with generous hands.)

On that day, the goddesses did not pursue hart or boar or fleet-footed hare. Instead, they set their bright-eyed hounds to pursue the shaggy wolves of the wold. He looked with jealousy upon these happy hunters, and though he cares nothing for his kin, he feigned pity for their prey. And so Fen’Harel took up the form of a slavering monster, and he hid himself in the path that he knew the hunting party would take.

Mythal’s long-legged hound was the first to sight the Dread Wolf, but Anduril’s golden dog was fleeter of foot. Fen’Harel ran from the swift-footed coursers, drawing Anduril’s dog far from her mistress’ side. When the wolf was at last alone with the hound, he tore open her belly and left her bleeding in the summer grass. The second hunting dog, Mythal’s pride and joy, came soon upon her slain sister, hot blood on dewy turf. But treacherous Fen’Harel lurked beside his quarry; the wolf’s jaws bit into her throat.

Then devious Fen’Harel, master of illusion, changed his form, taking the shape of one of the People. Slight and slender now, the Wolf lay down beside the slain dogs and began to weep.

Mythal and Anduril heard his cries, and ran swiftly to Fen’Harel’s side, but they did not know their brother. Though they grieved to see their hounds’ deathly hurts, the sisters’ hearts are just and loving and so they first gave comfort to the weeping elf.

“We would not see you suffer,” said kind Anduril.  
“What hurt has come to you?” Mythal asked.  
“These hounds,” said Fen’Harel, “have saved me from death, and have given their own lives in my defense. I grieve because they were brave and beautiful and should not have perished.”

At this kindness for their lost companions, the sisters’ hearts were opened to the stranger, and they begged that he relate all that had befallen him. And so the Dread Wolf smiled through his tears, and told them that he had been attacked by a spirit, malevolent and terrible.

As she listened to Fen’Harel’s tale, Mythal’s face grew angry, while Anduril questioned him closely about all that he had seen. When he had finished, the ladies were certain that their hounds had been slain by neither elf nor spirit, but by Anaris. Angered, each swore that they would have justice from the dark god.

Then each goddess offered Fen’Harel a boon for his service to them, and to their fallen hounds. The Dread Wolf would take no gift. Instead, he asked that he might call upon each of them to grant him aid in his hour of darkest need.

We live in dread of that day.


	2. The Tale of Mythal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter breaks how do you even.
> 
> This was a right pain in the ass to write. I hope it's effective. I hope I didn't plagiarize the Kalevala TOO BLATANTLY.
> 
> (Also I apologize for the endless poking. The meter is driving me nuts.)

The humans that he meets say that the Blight is over, but Vantti knows better.

They say that an elf ended the Blight, that an elf saved the world. Some say she was Dalish, and others say that she was the child of an alienage. Some say that she is not from Ferelden at all, but came from Antiva across the seas to save them all.

For a little while, while the stories are still fresh, while Alcariel Tabris’ name is still new and beautiful, they even forget to cheat the young hunter when he comes to the villages to trade pelts for salt fish and grain.

He has been a hunter for a year, no time at all.

It is enough time for him to learn that the shemlen will steal everything from him. ( _Shem_. The word is still new to him. He had no need of it when he was a child. Now, it has become a part of him, as natural as the word for ‘water,’ the word for ‘sky,’ the word for ‘thief.’)

It is enough time for him to encounter the blight wolves, the darkspawn, the spiders. It is enough time for him to watch Mika touch tainted blood, then slowly fade from brightness and beauty into a ghastly, rotted thing. (He found the courage to kill her. Eventually.)

It is enough time for him to understand that his clan will not survive the Blight. They have nothing to eat that is not tainted, nowhere to go except further into the shadow.

So when the shemlen tell him that one of his people has saved him, saved them all, he can only laugh bitterly, and hope that they will give him enough grain to keep the halla alive.

His Blight will be over when the last tainted wolf is dead. His Blight will be over when the last creeping ghoul is destroyed. His Blight will be over when the last child starves.

His Blight will never be over.

He listens to the Keeper and the First more attentively than he did. If he is lucky, he will be alive next year. If he is lucky, he will not die without knowing what it means to be an elf.

Under a gibbous moon, the Keeper begins a new tale.

“This is the tale of Mythal, our lady of justice, our lady of love.”

***

This is the tale of Mythal, our lady of justice, our lady of love.

When the sky was dark and silty  
River-mud, by blood unstained,  
When the earth was smooth and open,  
Stone and water flowing forth,  
Before grief and before pain,  
Lady Justice with her two hands  
Gathered clay and gathered reeds,  
Formed with skill a wooden vessel  
That could cross the endless sea.

When her boat was first completed,  
Watertight and silk-adorned,  
Painted bow and broidered canvas  
Cut across the silver waves.  
Rippled through primeval waters,  
Flesh and blood of new-formed Earth.  
Sunlight burned the waves before her,  
Darkness veiled her vessel’s wake,  
The lady sought a tranquil berth.

Mythal cried out to her mother,  
Gentle mother, sea and stone,  
“Give me rest and shaded harbor.”  
Mythal cried out to her father,  
Fearsome master of the sky,  
“Let me rest a while and linger.”  
Earth and sun both loved their daughter  
Bright and shining, full of love.  
Earth and sun came together, gave her rest.

Where the sunlight touched the water,  
There a lovely island rose:  
Sheltered harbor. Sweet rills bubbled,  
Long grass sprouted under stone.  
Mythal docked her graceful reed boat,  
Laid to sleep beside a stream-bed  
Then dreamt of peace, and dreamt of love.  
From her dream, she formed her husband  
All-father, beautiful Elgar’nan.

Gentle father, fearsome mother,  
Lord of sun and Lady Stone,  
Looked upon this new creation  
Ere the sleeping goddess woke,  
Wondered at his grace and beauty.  
Ocean gave to him first welcome  
Formed first fishes as a gift:  
Good to eat and fair to look at,  
Shining silver in the reeds.

Then sky-father gave his own gift:  
Long-winged seabirds to soar the waves  
Guides for Elgar’nan to follow  
When he traveled the new-made world.  
This was the sun’s first commandment,  
The first that Elgar’nan would disobey:  
“Go and find your lover’s island,  
Storm-petrel will guide your footsteps,  
Albatross will smooth the waves.”

Sea-Mother opposed her husband  
Stone-Lady begged him to remain.  
“Elgar’nan,” said she, “my new son,  
Mythal rests from arduous journey  
Long will it be ere she awakens.  
Tarry in deep water with me.”  
Water-mother Elgar’nan obeyed.  
Then the sun was wroth and heartsick,  
Raged to see his daughter’s love delayed.

Under black sky, under sunlight,  
All-father ignored the calling shorebirds  
Gave his love to mail-clad fishes,  
Until sun’s wrath was checked no longer.  
Then the sky surged forth in anger  
Fire-clad fury called to Elgar’nan  
“Boy, you will delay no longer.  
Crawl away from this watery cradle,  
Hasten now to meet your bride.”

Shamed by these words, his heart grew angry  
Elgar’nan shouted forth in wounded pride  
“I am happy here a bachelor,  
Do not desire this sleeping bride.”  
Then the wrathful sun reached down  
Seeking to destroy the young man,  
Stone surged up to save her child.  
Where they joined in heated battle,  
Ash and steam rose to the sky.

Sun-god’s fearsome cries shook the island  
Where the sleeping lady lay.  
Sea-mother’s bellows made the stone tremble,  
Split the earth where Justice slept.  
Then Mythal at last awakened.  
Turned her eyes to the silt-black sky:  
Saw her father had descended,  
Saw her mother had surged forth  
And between them, Elgar’nan.

Mythal cried out to her lover  
“You must stop them, lest they perish  
Still the tide and quell the flame.”  
But Elgar’nan, in passioned rage,  
Grabbed onto the sky, his father,  
Tore at him with pike-sharp teeth  
Until the sun’s blood was scattered  
Across the river-plain of the sky,  
Silver drops that glowed and pulsed.

When his father lay defeated,  
Elgar’nan in anger spoke:  
“I banish you from the world forever;  
Slumber in an unmarked grave.”  
He raised a cairn over the Sky-Lord  
Then to Sea-Mother and Mythal proclaimed  
“I am All-Father now, and Maker.  
Have I not created justice?  
You will love me and obey.”

Lady Stone surrendered meekly,  
Loved her son, trusted him still  
But fair Mythal challenged her lover.  
“Elgar’nan, you are beloved,  
Yet to wisdom you must yield.  
Already the sea ice creeps forth,  
Already I feel winter’s chill.  
You must allow the sun his freedom;  
The stars alone do not give warmth.”

For long ages, Elgar’nan, unyielding,  
Would not heed kind Mythal's words.  
“This is justice,” said the young god.  
“Sun-God's treachery is repaid.”  
But, at last, the earth was frozen;  
Ice had covered sea and stone.  
Elgar’nan kindled fires in vain.  
And beneath the hoary winter  
Earth-Mother cried out in pain.

Then All-Father’s heart was softened,  
At last he listened to his bride.  
Gentle Mythal, who knew justice,  
Told him to unearth his father:  
Restore warmth and light to sky.  
Sunlight broke the blue-veined icebergs,  
Warmth and vigor flowed through Stone.  
Reunited with her long-lost lover,  
Water-Wife brought forth delights.  
  
Earth in joyous celebration  
Brought forth wonders rich and rare:  
Stone and sand gave way to forests,  
Marsh and meadow bloomed.  
Mythal took her blushing husband,  
Led him to the water-side  
On her island in the ocean.  
There, at last, the two were wedded  
And swore to heal the world from strife.

As a bride-price, Elgar’nan  
Devised beasts fleet and fair,  
Hart and hound All-father made.  
Mythal’s groom-price was a promise  
Carved of silver and of stone.  
With skilled hands, she made the moon,  
Pale reflection of the sun.  
“Let this hang above us always, as a symbol  
of the mercy we have shown.”

Elgar’nan bowed before her,  
Led her to a golden throne  
“You alone are love and mercy.  
To you alone will I defer.  
My sword-arm is sworn to serve.”  
Justice smiled to hear these gallant words.  
Lady Love spoke to her husband,  
“Gladly I accept your service,  
And I pledge mine in return.”

“We will make this world a garden  
Green and growing,  
Fair and free.  
Forever just, forever loving.  
Might and mercy shall dwell together,  
United like the sky and sea.  
Let not quarrels come between us.  
But let us now lie down together,  
Beget first child of new-made peace.”


	3. The Tale of Andruil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's difficult to make commandments interesting. I TRIED. (Actual bona-fide folktale with ZERO POETRY next chapter, I promise)
> 
> (Also, yes, aware that killing hawks, which are also sacred to Andruil, is apparently taboo [or at least killing one and leaving it to rot with an arrow through it] But hawk is a pretty useless food; hare is not. Figured that a hunt goddess would be understanding of eating hare, but would impose restrictions, which are the subject of her lore and reflect Vir Adahlen.)

When the world is small, Vantti almost believes in the gods.

Sweat-smell on his skin, blood-taste on his tongue, knife-sound in his ears, bristle-touch beneath his fingers: these are the whole of the world. There is no space for anything but his work, no room to admit doubt or wonder.

Andruil can fit into this space.

This would be delicate work by daytime; by half-moon light in hazy summer air, it is almost impossible. Vantti knows that he should not have killed the hind so close to sunset, but it is done. The carcass must be prepared or it will spoil.

He has songs to steer his handiwork: the hunting-master’s chants guide his knife around velvet udders, show him where to cut beneath the tail to keep filth from tainting heart-hot flesh. There is a goddess in this small space, even if the gods are a lie.

He crouches beside his kill, spread belly-up on the grass. He has already split her open and snapped her pelvis, works quickly to slice out her stomach and steaming intestines. He is careful: careful not to let the organs spoil the meat, careful not to let his hand slip under his blade. After she is gutted, his long knife breaks through the deer's sternum, and he can take out her lungs and heart, cut away the membranes that wrap her bladder and her womb.

The offal will not keep; Vantti thinks that he will leave it as an offering to Fen’Harel. (All except the liver and kidneys, which will make a good super while the meat cools.)

He is not sure that he believes in Fen’Harel, but he needs no trouble on his long way home.

When the deer’s organs are pulled out, he cleans the carcass as best he can: splashes the meat with water from his leather bottle, wipes away the pooling blood, loops a grey rope around the gore-splashed muzzle. He has camped beside a broad-limbed oak, hangs the corpse to cool while he eats and rests. (The Blight is over, but there are still wolves in the wood; Vantti knows that he will not actually sleep so long as he smells of butchery.)

The hind’s liver tastes of grass and milk. Vantti wishes that he had salt or bread, but it is an idle desire, born of exhaustion and the desire to be home once more.

He thinks that when he comes home, he will give the hind to Arr’vad, instead of to the clan. He will not accept it, of course, but it will be a fine gesture to stand in place of the things that Vantti does not know how to say to the young man. A gift is easier, he thinks, will show his tenderness without requiring Vantti to stumble brokenly through all the wrong words before he finds the right one.

This is not the space for Mythal; the shadow of the hunt is Andruil’s alone. But Mythal is his mother, now. Perhaps a mother will understand why, in the shadow of his uncertainty, Vantti prays.

"I quarreled once  
With you, protector:  
It was nothing but breath.  
Look with mercy on me,  
For against this enemy  
I have need of you."

Under moonlight and summer haze, the liver-taste of the old words becomes a kiss, raw and hungry. The illusion lasts as long as Vantti’s drawn breath, and then he is back in the woods again, ashamed that he is thinking of love when he should be gathering strength to come home.

In the shadow of the deer and in the smell of seared offal, he feels the hunt-goddess. Not angry, not yet, but expectant.

He has given to Mythal, he has given to Fen’Harel; he has not given to her.

Vantti lies back, closes his eyes, and tries to recall the hunting-master’s song.

“This,” the hunter says, “is the tale of Andruil, who is the mother of hares.”

***

This is the tale of Andruil, who is the mother of hares.

This is the hare’s hunt-lore:

First of all: don’t forget!  
In springtime, the dancer’s mine alone.  
Kill my daughter then, your breath’s forfeit:  
Yield to a goddess’ will and wait.

Besides, there’s a better feed  
On prey gut-swollen with summer turf.

But in the proper season,  
Chase her.

Chase her!  
Bobtailed longlegged browneared beauty

Blow the horn  
four notes to start and then  
in straight lines surround her  
     the zig-zagging crazy path

Left she hops  
and right she hops

but here’s the hound  
and here’s the hound  
teeth to either side,

Drive her back to bow sights

The arrow!  
Aim it cleverly: no second chances here,  
Let fletching fly from fingers,  
     burrow deep into the back

Softmouth spaniels to haul home the prize

If you’ve done it right,  
She’s dead upon the instant  
Won’t feel those scraping teeth  
That drop her in your lap.

A good dog earns his reward:  
Sweetmeats and cold water.

Hare’s good eating, but  
Set aside the marrow-mash  
For those who need it most.  
(Heart and head make tasty tidbits.)

Flay her cleanly:  
That white tail’s a charm  
To guard from broken limbs.

When her body’s broken and  
Meat bubbles in the stewpot,  
While sucking sweet jelly from thighbones,  
Remember:

You’ll be in her place.


	4. The Tale of Sylaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I KNOW. I AM BAD AT WRITING THINGS THAT DON'T INVOLVE MURDER.

When the human stumbles into his camp, Vantti draws his knife. It is over in seconds: the ground is slashed with red and Vantti can step back, assess what he has done. The dead man’s skin is the color of old milk; he smells appallingly of copper.

Vantti knows that he should feel something. He notices only that his dagger is bloody and he must clean it. An easy task for the troubled mind.

A little stream runs beside Vantti’s camp: swift-flowing, paved with blue and silver stone, carpeted with swaying lotus and spindleweed. He washes his knife in the fast-flowing rill before drying and sheathing it.

When he turns, he is again assaulted by the metallic corpse-smell: sweat, blood and shem-stench.

Vantti knows that he should feel something. After all, he remembers his first murder only too well, still occasionally wakes in terror-sweat when he dreams about it.

But this is not first murder, and killing humans has become nothing more than gruesome routine, as much a part of his bloody duty to the clan as skinning a rabbit or butchering a boar. To have come so near, the man must have deliberately ignored the clan’s warnings, must have sought them out. He feels no remorse, only disgust that his campsite has been spoiled, that he will have to find a new place to sleep, that even his private spaces can be destroyed by the actions of an unthinking shem.

(There is, he thinks, no use in complaining, no use in fighting the inevitable, no use in holding onto unhappiness, and so the elf does not dwell upon his intruder. Instead he rolls up his blanket, stamps earth over his campfire and takes up his pack.)

Vantti knows that he should feel something. 

The light from a crooked moon illuminates Vantti’s path, flattening the surrounding trees into silver silhouettes with long, trailing shadows. The autumn air smells of rain and dust, but there are no clouds in the sky, only the endless stars ribboning across the blackness.

The forest is silent.

The elf counts his footfalls, allows himself to focus on each step, rather than paying attention to the question of where he is going, what he is leaving behind. His walk is measured in time rather than distance: the time is takes for the sickle moon to rise, the time it takes for him to feel a sourness building in his calves, the time it takes for the night chill to bite through his coat. As he walks, his fingers brush against the trees: another thing to focus on, another way of distracting himself from place and purpose.

Then his fingertips trip over deep gouges in scaly bark; four horizontal lines at shoulder-height, and Vantti knows where he is going, where he has always been going.

The clan keeps no maps, for fear of bandits or worse, but the paths they take are marked; every child is taught to recognize the roads that lead to campsites, to fresh water, to good fishing and fruit trees. This path is none of these.

This mark – bear claws in cherrywood – this is Arr’vad’s sign alone. This is his lover’s road.

Vantti unshoulders his pack, slumps against the cherry tree.

There is no chance, no chance at all that Arr’vad is in the woods tonight. It is the wrong season for ironbark and elfroot, the wrong time for anyone to be away from the clan.

Except for Vantti, of course.

The halla are traveling and the clan will follow. Trade-goods must be gathered, supplies replenished, resources consolidated. The elves are suddenly worth robbing, and Vantti is good with a dagger. He has a duty; he knows this.

He is very tired.

The hunter presses his face to the rough-skinned tree, breathes deep. The air here smells wild and sweet, and though Arr’vad is nowhere near, Vantti takes comfort in him nonetheless.

"Da'len," Vantti says to the autumn night, "tell me the story of Sylaise."

And though there is no answer, he knows the words by heart.

***

This is the story of Sylaise, hearth-mother and magic-weaver.

Long ago and far away, when the people were still young, their greatest city was Arlathan. Silver and scarlet she was, and full of joy. Her people lived in comfort and splendor, knowing neither illness nor death, although they were not immune from grief.

Among all of the people who lived in Arlathan, none were so well regarded as a certain young maiden who was called Surenin. She was of noble family, and need never have worked for her bread, but she took delight in new skills and quickly mastered many crafts: learned to paint and sew and work supple leather into beautiful garments. She studied with many celebrated tutors, and though it took her many years to achieve mastery of each art, elves did not yet know haste.

Magic she had, as well, and she wove spells into the work of her hands, creating things of fabulous beauty to honor the people and the gods.

As Surenin grew in grace and skill, elves from afar came to look upon her art and to shower her with praise. Surenin was delighted by this flattery, and she gave freely to her foreign visitors – a jeweled belt for this one, a painted vase for another – for she knew that she might always make a treasure of still greater worth.

One day, a young man approached her with a request that no visitor had made before. His name was Ashkarel and he had traveled far, for he had heard of her peerless mastery, and he wished to apprentice with her, learning everything that she knew about the making of beautiful things.

Surenin was taken aback by this request, for though she had studied under many others, she had never given thought to teaching. But the young man was so charming, and expressed such delight in her creations that she agreed that he might dwell with her in Arlathan for however long as he wished. She promised to teach Ashkarel all that she knew: how to throw a pot, how to weave cloth, how to carve teeth and bones.

The two lived in happiness; Surenin was a patient instructor, Ashkarel an eager student. After a time, the youth and the young woman fell in love, and Surenin was a maiden no longer. And though she still had much to teach her lover, whose skill yet paled in comparison to her own, the lady even began to invite him to contribute to her own artwork – gilding the pages of an elaborate manuscript, perhaps, or carving a birchwood broach for a splendid woven cloak. He poured his affection for Surenin into these tasks, and the art that Ashkarel created for that lady was always his most beautiful work.

After many years, the two chose to conceive a child. (In those days, it was easier, for all elves possessed at least a little magic, and could govern their fertility without turning to a Keeper or to a Healer’s herbs to allow children to be born.)

When Surenin was certain of her pregnancy, Ashkarel took his lover’s leave, intending to gather crafting materials so that he might make a gift for his waiting child. He promised to return swiftly to Surenin’s side, kissed her, took up his sword, and departed from their home.

He did not return.

Surenin grew heart heavy as her belly swelled, and when Ashkarel did not return after many months, she at last resolved to search for him, though she had lived in Arlathan her whole life and had never journeyed beyond the city’s walls.

Brave and foolhardy, Surenin set out upon the road, armed with her mother’s bow, wearing a thick woolen cloak and carrying enough food to last her for a month. She slept under stars and swathed herself against freezing rain, unaccustomed though she was to hardship. She did not complain.

During her travels, she came to a cottage in a marsh. The wind was bitter cold, and Surenin hoped to find shelter, so she knocked upon the cottage door. An elderly woman opened the door for shivering Surenin.

“What do you wish, my dear?” the old elf asked. “You should not be away from home, child-heavy as you are.”

Through chattering teeth Surenin replied, “I seek my lover, who has gone. Pregnant or not, I will bring him home.”

The older woman sighed to herself at the foolishness of the young, but invited the girl to warm herself by her fire and to sleep upon a bed of soft, scented moss in the corner of the cottage.

In the morning, the wind still blew bitterly across the marsh, while lightning streaked the sky. And so the elder woman, fearing for Surenin, asked the young woman to stay with her another day, and to leave when the weather was again clement.

Surenin readily agreed to this proposal. In thanks for the woman’s kindness, she spent the day in labor, creating a beautiful finger-woven sash for her elder. While Surenin twisted bright-dyed flax fibers through her fingers, the old woman told her of the marsh where she dwelt: a place of great power. When the moon rose above the two women, they broke bread, then lay down to wander the Beyond.

A yellow dawn woke Surenin, and she awoke to find that she was no longer in the elder’s cottage, but rather slept upon the open marsh, wrapped only in her cloak.

But Surenin was not entirely alone. Two doves were scratching in the moss beside the craftswoman, and as she woke and stretched she made such a clamor that the birds roused and flew off, calling to each other. Surenin found, to her great surprise, that the doves did not coo, but rather spoke in words, and she understood them as well as you or I can understand each other’s speech.

“Ha!” said one, “Favored by Sylaise? It just goes to show, you cannot trust a goddess’ judgment.”  
The other hooted an acknowledgement “She might have been rewarded, but it’s no excuse for rudeness.”

“Please,” said Sylaise to the birds, who had alighted several feet from her, “I did not mean to frighten you, and I will share what food I can, only tell me what you mean, and why I can understand you.”

The first dove shook out its brown neck feathers, before hopping a little closer to the elf. “Your manners are better than they were,” it said.  
“Thank you,” said Surenin. “What did you mean about Sylaise?”  
The other bird, who had come no closer, spoke. “You’ve got a good supper in that pack still,” it said. “Feed us, and we shall tell you.”

So Surenin took seed bread from her pack, and crumbled it to make a breakfast for the doves. They pecked greedily at the crumbs. When there was no more, they again spoke.

“You visited a goddess yesterday,” said one. “And you behaved yourself well; gave gifts for hospitality, listened to old stories.”  
“And it was the hearth goddess you visited,” the other dove continued, “who is very amenable to that sort of thing. So you have a boon from her. We will tell you where your lover lies, near to death, and how you can keep him from that fate.”  
“If you feed us.”  
Surenin laughed at the greed of the two birds, but took another loaf from her pack, broke it in half, and broke her own fast while the birds gobbled up her dropped morsels.

Ashkarel was, they said, not far. He had been poisoned by a wyvern, and lay close to death, but Sylaise had sown plants of great virtue around the dying boy. If Surenin were to feed him a potion made from these flowers’ roots it would, they said, be enough to restore him for the journey back to Arlathan. The plant might be recognized by the design of its leaves – white and green chevrons like those Surenin had braided into a sash for an old woman only the day before.

The young elf thanked the doves, and apologized again for interrupting their breakfast before she once again shouldered her pack, and went to seek her lover. For the first time, Surenin knew the fear of time, knew that if she took too long to find him, her Ashkarel might be dead.

But Sylaise watched over her, guided the lady’s footsteps to the glen where her beloved lay, bloodied and feverish, but alive.

Her hands had never been so careful, her magic as sure as it was in that moment. She made a potion from the sacred flower’s roots, then gave it to the injured Ashkarel.

Almost immediately, the color returned to his cheeks, and he opened his eyes, saw Surenin hovering over him.

“I was,” he said, “very foolish to leave you, especially now.”  
Surenin smiled at his words. “Let me guide you home.”


	5. The Tale of Dirthamen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look I wrote fluff. Hooray, fluff.
> 
> But, you know, *angsty* fluff, because hello have you met me?
> 
> I realize that this secret story is not, in the strictest sense, folklore. But it fits here, I think.

Arr’vad is calm and every word he speaks feels like a dagger pushed through Vantti’s chest.

The two men lean against an overgrown stone fountain; their fingers intertwine, shoulders press together. It is not a comfortable place to rest, all cold stone and icy air, but it is the only place where they can be alone, away from the chaos of the Arlathvhen.

“The keeper,” Arr’vad says, “has asked me to leave. Clan Sammarin need me.” His voice breaks a little as he speaks, just enough for Vantti to hear, just enough to let him know that under his placid, smiling features, his lover is hurting. “I’m a terrible mage,” Arr’vad says. “But apparently a terrible mage is better than no First at all.”

Vantti knows that he should be happy for him. Clan Lavellan has no place for a craftsman who bleeds magic into mundane work; no use for Arr’vad’s fumbling enchantments. Vantti has listened to his lover’s secret grief for years; this request offers him a chance to be valued at last. Their Keeper is right to send him away.

“I am glad of it,” he says. Every syllable is a lie.

“I…” Arr’vad trails off, allows silence to build between them for unendurable seconds.

“You will do well,” Vantti says. “I am sure of it. It’s no good for you to live your life as an apprentice with no hope. Sammarin is lucky to have you.”

“They will not think so.” Panic has seeped into the edges of Arr’vad’s voice. “What will they think when they realize that I can barely cast the simplest of spells? What will they say when they realize that they have gotten a First who cannot knit a broken limb or move an aravel or _anything_?”

“You will learn,” Vantti says. “And you will do what you can. You’ll have a Keeper to guide you, and when you become their Keeper, you will find a First to help you. It’ll be all right. You don’t have to be good at magic to be a good Keeper.”

Arr’vad sighs, and squeezes Vantti’s hand. “I really hope you’re right,” he says. “I really, really do.”

Vantti can think of no words of comfort, too overwhelmed by the knot in his stomach to remember the right words to say.

Instead, he straightens, feeling sudden soreness in his back where it was pressed against the stone, then untangles his hand from Arr’vad’s to draw his thumb across his lover’s cheek, cup his chin gently in his palm, catch trailing strands of yellow hair between his own dark fingers.

“I will miss you,” Vantti says.

The kiss is sour and soft all at once, tastes of bitterness and desire and every brokenhearted word that they will not say. When they pull apart, Arr’vad is flushed and gasping.

“Do you remember that damn deer?” he asks.

For the first time that evening, Vantti smiles. “I was such an idiot,” he says. “But I was so flustered by you, and didn’t know how to say anything. I thought … some grand romantic gesture.”

“It was silly,” says Arr’vad.

Vantti nods. “It was. Showing up at your fire, with a great bloody hart, and absolutely nothing to say when I laid it at your feet. I think that I dropped it and ran away.”

“I’m glad I chased after you.”

Their second kiss is less urgent than the first; they linger in its sweetness.

“Thank you,” Vantti says. “For everything.”

Arr’vad folds his arms around Vantti’s back, drawing him into a tight embrace. “Will you lie with me? Before we leave tomorrow?”

Vantti aches for his lover, longs for the softness of his stomach, the heat of his hands upon the small of his back, and the bitter taste of come upon his lips. None of these things feel like the right way to say goodbye.

“No,” he says.

Arr’vad nods, shifts his weight to nuzzle Vantti’s neck. “Will you tell me a story, at least? I want to take some part of you with me.”

Vantti closes his eyes, strokes his lover’s hair. “I will tell you a secret.”

 

***

 

This happened when I was a child, before I knew that I wanted to be a hunter. I think the clan was still in the Free Marches, but it was before we came to the Sea.

My mother had sent me out into the woods on some errand: gathering firewood or collecting elfroot, or something like that. Something to keep me out of trouble and out from underfoot, but close enough to the camp that I’d be safe. I was supposed to stay on all the marked paths, make sure that I came home before sunset.

I’m sure that I was distracted, and probably taking too long to finish whatever task my mother had set out for me. I remember that I used to do that a lot … drift off and imagine that I was some great adventurer who was going to save the world and restore Elvhenan.

At some point, though, during my wandering, I noticed that the woods had gone silent, the way that they do when a storm is coming. There was no rain-smell in the air, though, and none of the hazy air that you get just before lightning comes cracking out of the sky. It was just still and quiet, like I was the only thing in the forest.

It made me nervous, and I figured that I should probably start heading home. I knew I hadn’t gone far, and even when I was young, I wasn’t stupid. I knew that I’d taken a birch path, so I started looking around to find a tree that might have a marker carved into it … and I realized that I was in exactly the wrong kind of forest for birch; everything was oak and pine as far as I could see. That’s when I knew that I was lost.

I did what I was supposed to: started retracing my steps, looking for any kind of a landmark that might have a path leading to it.

As I walked, the air sort-of closed in all around me, like it was this thick, heavy blanket that just … destroyed all the sound in the universe. It was eerie like nothing I’d ever seen, but it was also lovely, in its own way. It was the first time I’d really been able to appreciate the forest as a thing that was alive in itself, not just a place where we lived.

Eventually, the silence broke: I heard running water. It sounded close, too, like a river had suddenly snuck up on me in the middle of that still wood.

Water, I thought, was definitely a good sign. If it was anywhere near camp, there was almost certainly a trail that would take me home. Even if it wasn’t, my chances of running into a hunter or a scout were pretty good. So I decided to walk towards that sound of running water, hoping that I’d spot something that would take me home.

I didn’t see anything until I got to the stream itself. It was a pretty place: shallow, and not very wide, but wet enough that there was some willow scrub along the bank, and not just more pine. There were currant bushes there, too, and I guess it was the right time of year for berries, because I remember sitting down by that stream-side and eating just handfuls of the things. They were awful and sour with papery stems that got stuck in my teeth. They were the best things I’ve ever eaten.

That’s when the ravens came.

There were two of them, and they landed in that stream like a thunderstorm of black feathers, croaking and clattering at each other, like they didn’t even know I was there. I tried to stay quiet. I don’t think I was any good at it, but they just didn’t seem to care that I was watching them; this was their place, and I was about as threatening to them as a mouse.

They were beautiful, though, and it was a joy to see them play; pulling each other’s feathers and making groaning noises at each other before they dove into the stream, where they fluffed and splashed water through their feathers.

It was the first time that I’d ever really looked at an animal and thought about what it was thinking. I grew up with the halla, of course, but they were just … there. They were part of my mother’s world, and they did their jobs, but I’d never really stopped to wonder about whether or not they could be happy. I never thought it mattered. But those two ravens, splashing each other and muddying up the water … it was the most important thing in the world to me that they were happy, and that they made me happy in turn.

Eventually, they finished their bath and flew off. When I was sure that they weren’t coming back, I started wading my way down the stream, hoping to find some sign of the camp.

I remember that the wood wasn’t quiet anymore; I felt like I could hear _everything_. Every little bird, every squirrel, every rabbit, every insect. The whole world felt like it was singing for me, for how happy those two birds had made me. I wanted to feel like that forever.

It took me a whole night to get home, and by the time I was wrapped in a blanket beside my mother’s aravel, I had been scolded by practically everyone in the clan, which made me miserable and sullen.

I never told anyone about those ravens.

 


End file.
